“I like peddlers,” said little Fanny, as she watched her new friend saunter slowly down the road. “He gave me this pretty wreath and this ribbon; I am sorry he didn’t like mamma’s picture; he hardly looked at it at all.” “The peddler never heard of your mamma, my darling; you must not expect strangers to feel as you and grandma do about it.” “Yes,” replied Fanny, in a disappointed tone;--“but it is a pity, because I like him. There he goes; now he has climbed the fence, and is crossing the meadow. Good by, Mr. Peddler.” Yes--across the meadow, down the little grassy lane, over the stile--far into the dim--dim woods, where no human eye could penetrate, prostrate upon the earth, shedding such tears as manhood seldom sheds, lay the peddler. Still in his ears lingered that bird-like voice, still in his veins thrilled the touch of that tiny hand, and those silken curls, in whose every glossy wave shone out Mary’s self. Mary--yet not Mary; Mary’s child--yet not _his_ child!--And Lucy, too;--O, the sorrow written in every furrow of that kindly face, and--O God--by whom? The stars glimmered through the trees, the night-winds gently rocked the little merry birds to sleep--midnight came on with its solemn spirit-whispers--followed the gray dawn with its misty tears, and still--there lay the peddler, stricken, smitten, on Nature’s kindly breast; for there, too (but all unconscious of his misery--deaf to his penitence), lay pillowed the dear head which had erst drooped so lovingly upon his breast. CHAPTER XV. “Very well done; button-holes strong and even, lining smooth; stitching, like rows of seed pearl. This is no apprentice work,” said Mr. John Pray, as he held Lucy’s vests up to the light for a more minute inspection. “That’s a vest, now, as is a vest; won’t disgrace John Pray’s shop; it would gladden even the eyes of my old boss, Jacob Ford; and mighty particular he was, too, and mighty small wages the old man paid, as I have occasion to know. Well, I made a vow then, and thank God I have had grace to keep it, that if ever John Pray became a master workman, he would do as he would be done by. So, I don’t ask what wages other tailors give; that don’t matter to me. I don’t want to die with any body’s groans in my ears. So, when a piece of work is finished and handed in, I say, ‘Now, John Pray, what should _you_ think was a fair price for _you_ to receive, if _you_ had done that ’ere job?’ That’s it; no dodging behind that question. ’Specially when a man has been through the opera_tive_ mill himself. So, there’s your pay, Zekiel, weighed out in that ere pair of Bible scales; and you may tell the old lady, as you call her, that if she had served a regular apprenticeship at the trade, she couldn’t have done better. What did you say her name was? However, that’s no consequence--as long as she does the work well. Here’s some more vests for her.”